The Gambler (Bailey Clan Westerns Book 18)

A Card Game Can Be Deadlier Than a Gunfight

Corey Bailey has always lived by his own code—drifting from poker tables to cattle towns, armed with sharp instincts and a faster draw. Trained by a legendary gambler and shaped by a restless post-war West, Corey never looked for trouble—but it seems to find him all the same. Now, seeking peace in the quiet town of Big Rock, Utah, he finds himself caught in the middle of a violent land dispute between a ruthless rancher and determined settlers.

As tensions rise and blood is spilled, Corey must decide whether to walk away—or stand his ground. But when your name carries a reputation and your past won’t stay buried, the only way out is through.

Book 18 in The Bailey Clan Westerns, The Gambler is a story of grit, loyalty, and the kind of justice only the West can serve.

Read The Gambler today and ride with Corey Bailey into a showdown where the stakes are land, honor—and survival.

Excerpt from the book

“You damn nesters are ruining the range!” The tone was belligerent, and the speaker was standing with his hand hovering over his gun butt. The White Rock Saloon was the largest in the small town of Big Rock, and it was the only saloon with a Faro table, which drew in gamblers from all over southern Utah. The White Rock also served breakfast and a midday meal, and the food was very good—the only place in the town that served better food was Big Annie’s Eatery. The speaker was a tall, broad-shouldered ranch hand named Braxton who rode for the Rocking C Ranch. He was confronting two sixteen-year-old boys who had just walked into the saloon. Decker McMahan was a lean, tall youngster who wore a belt gun and carried a rifle in his left hand. Devin Turner was five feet ten inches tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular body. He also wore a belt gun and carried a rifle.

Decker said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister.” Braxton sniggered and told him, “Both of you belong to those nester families squatting on Rocking C range. You’re using water from the creek that’s meant for our cattle. I reckon we gotta send a message to your families that it ain’t good to squat on our range.” Decker didn’t look scared, and he said calmly, “If your boss has a beef, he should take it up with my father. Ain’t no good talking to us.” Braxton said grimly, “You’re a dirt-eating nester, and I ain’t sure if you know who your father is!” He paused and then added menacingly, “You wanna call me a liar?”

Decker’s placid face went still, and suddenly he didn’t look like a kid anymore. He said softly, “You better take back those words, Mister.” Braxton sneered at him and said, “There’s two of you and one of me, so let’s see what you dirt-eaters are capable of. I ain’t taking back any words.” The room was silent, and then the saloon owner, Fergal, who was behind the bar, said, “Let it lie, Braxton. They’re just kids.” Braxton turned and snarled at him, “Stick your snout out of this! You don’t want to tangle with the Rocking C—not unless you want our crew to come to town and take this saloon apart!” Suddenly a voice said calmly, “I’m a gambler, and I know a stacked deck when I see one.”

Braxton turned and glared around the room. “Who said that!” he demanded. A giant of a man in a black broadcloth suit was sitting at a table about ten feet away. He was playing a game of solitaire, and his flat-brimmed black hat partly shielded his face. Even sitting, one could see that he was a big man. He raised his head and said, “I did. You want to ask me if I know my father?” Braxton stared at the angular, hard-planed face, and he was about to retort when he looked into the man’s cold green eyes. He swallowed involuntarily and said, “This ain’t none of your business, Mister—stay out of it. This is between me and these nesters.”